Dumbledore's death in the style of Stephen Fry and Terry Pratchett

The trouble with being a wizard, Albus Dumbledore realized, was that you knew the exact time, date and circumstances of one's death in advance. It wasn't so much the time and date that he had the problem with - after all, he had had what cricket players euphemistically called "a good innings" - it was the knowledge that, as far as he could recollect, he possessed neither a Manchester United home strip, nor a limitless supply of peek-a-boo lingerie.

So, it came as some surprise to the stately old wizard, then, as he approached the day violently ringed in bloody red ink in his 100-year diary, that those Slitherin boys should take their Rag Week pranks just a tad too far. Quite a big tad, as a matter of fact, if the red shirt and the worrying draught up the nether regions was anything to go by.

At least, he thought to himself as he rubbed the remains of Mr Botter's patent sleeping potion from his tired old eyes, that he had no plans to visit Blackpool at any time in the near future. Not after that nasty business with the beach donkeys and the manticore that had left much of Lancashire slipping into the sea, at any rate.

"LOVELY UP HERE", said a nearby figure, "ON A CLEAR DAY, THEY SAY, YOU CAN SEE RIGHT ACROSS TO IRELAND."

"D-do I know you?" stammered the wizard, realizing, far too late, that he had several feet of the Blackpool Tower rammed into rather inconvenient parts of his body.

"AH." said Death, eyeing Dumbledore as suspiciously as a skeleton can in the circumstances "WOULD SIR OR MADAM LIKE TO STEP THIS WAY?"